“I’m so sorry.”
I almost miss it; it’s barely a whisper. The winds outside are louder, and it’s not even windy.
“Draco… I’m so sorry, so, so sorry. I…”
“It’s okay.”
“I won’t ever get angry again. Never. I promise, I’ll never be like this again. I’m so sorry.”
Your head sinks into your hands. Your shoulders shake. I watch you fall apart, sink into yourself, begin to hate yourself. I convince myself I believe you; you sound so sincere. It’s true this time, I can tell.
“It’s okay,” I say. Because it is.
I put a hand on your shoulder.
“Where does it hurt?”
You hold out your bloody hand. There is glass stuck inside the palm. Your hand is shaking, and you look at me with such big eyes, they’re so full of sadness, I can’t…
“I’ll get the medicine bag.” I know you prefer the muggle bandages, so that’s what I fix you with. You stay quiet while I bondage you up, wipe the blood away and add the liquid that will kill sickness. Or something. You stay quiet while I close the cupboards, get away the broken glass, lift the table back up. You stay quiet until I give you a glass of water and tell you to drink.
“Draco…” You sound so broken, look so broken, and I want to cry again, but I have to stay strong for you. I need to.
“Drink. It’s okay. And then get some sleep, you need to rest.”
You nod, cry a bit more. Stand up, lift a hand, hesitate. Let it fall. Walk over to the bedroom door, open it, turn around. Your eyes pause at my hair, I can tell it’s red, but before you can say anything, I tell you to go sleep, Harry.
You do.
I make my own blood go away with my wand, heal myself with my wand, still not feeling too sure about the muggle stuff.
I use spells to tidy the room but leave the dishes for you to do tomorrow. It’s one weird thing you fuzz about doing the muggle way, but there’s no way I’ll touch those plates, so you have to do it. I know it makes you feel a little better, and you’re helping me, too.
I almost sleep on the coach, because I need some time to calm my own nerves, but I end up in our room. Like always. Because if you wake up without me, you think I’ve left, and you’ll hurt yourself or get angry. I know you’ve calmed down, I know you’re not angry. I know you’re asleep. But I still hold my breath just a little, don’t pull at the blankets even though you’ve got almost all of them.
I’m scared I’ll wake you. I’m scared you haven’t calmed down. I’m scared you’ll get angry again.
Your beautiful, black curls turn around to tickle my cheek. Your glasses poke my temple; you always forget to take them off. I carefully do it for you, have to throw them a few inches towards the bedside table not to risk waking you. They thankfully don’t break.
I fall asleep shortly after.
It happens again. It always does, were I really stupid enough to forget that?
You shout, throw a chair at me. There’s a ringing in my left ear, I can’t hear what you’re saying, I don’t want to hear. The chair hits my thigh and knee, I try to ignore the pain.
You turn to the corner with the small study, if you can even call it that, and I panic. No, Harry, that’s my notes - important notes, good notes, two months’ worth of research, please don’t-
Why, Harry?
Why?
You know how important those notes were. You know they can’t be brought back after the incendio. Is it me, am I the problem? Harry, tell me, please – is it my fault?
Was I bothering you? Did I do something?
Is it my fault?
I heal your wounds again, but I don’t say anything. You don’t either, but I can see your regret clear as day in your eyes. Your whole face. You’re so expressive, Harry, and I love that about you, it makes you so beautiful when you’re happy, but it’s excruciating to see you like this.
It’s okay, I almost say, but my voice is too hoarse, and you’re too quiet. I pat your hair instead. Your lovely curls. Massage your head. You close your eyes, a few more tears fall out.
“It’s okay,” I manage to whisper eventually.
You sob.
You’re on top of me, you’re in me, you’re over me, you’re beside me, you’re everywhere. You thrust and you thrust, it feels good, you’re so good, we haven’t done this in a while but you’re so good. I tell you, and you moan my name, thrust harder. It feels even better, and you pant, and it’s good, you’re sweating all over, I find it hot, so good.
You pant harder, grunt, growl-
Growl-
You growl-
And suddenly the room is shrinking, the walls moving towards me, pressing in, you’re going deeper, you’re panting, are you angry? You’re growling, are you going to hit me again? The walls are squeezing me between them, like you are pressing at me from everywhere, you are everywhere Harry and I can’t move can’t breathe Harry are you angry is it my fault?
You’re not inside me anymore, you’re next to me, behind me, curled around me, with my hand in yours and my hair in your nose. We’re not touching anywhere else, I don’t know if you’re still excited, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m not. You know I’m not.
“Were you scared?” You say. I can hear the words cost a lot.
Was I?
“It’s okay,” I manage. It is.
“I’m sorry.”
You sigh into my hair, squeeze my hand and lean over to kiss my cheek.
“Night. Love you, Draco. I’ll… try something different next time. Sorry.”
Your voice is heartbroken and it’s breaking my own. I want to tell you that you don’t have to change anything, it was fine like this, great, even, but I know you won’t believe me because I reacted like this. I love when you make love to me like that, hard, hot, intense, I don’t want anything else. I’m sorry, I want to say, I’m sorry I messed up, I’m sorry that you feel sorry because I messed up, not you, but there’s a big fat lump in my throat and I can’t speak. I squeeze your hand back instead.
I think you’re already asleep when I say I love you too.
You’re angry, your fist is everywhere, there is pain, your voice is everywhere, I’m trapped in the corner and you’re everywhere, Harry, there’s no room left. I turn away, I hope you won’t get even more angry, I’m not turning away from you, I promise, please don’t think that, but my face hurts too much and I don’t want you to see me cry.
You get out of it quickly, but you’re so angry with yourself that you don’t calm down, you just hit furniture instead of me, shout, I thank merlin for silencing charms.
You’re a tornado and an earthquake mother Earth herself, you’re so loud, Harry, I want to calm you down but I’m too scared, I can only stare at the wall, through my fingers, I’m sorry I can’t help you more.
When you’re silent, I hold my breath until I start crying, and once I’ve started, I can’t stop. I turn around, you’re kneeling in the middle of our living room, ours, we bought it together, arranged the furniture together, decorated it together, and now it’s all in a million pieces. I can’t even see which pieces of wood belonged to the bookshelves or the table anymore.
You’re balling your eyes out, too, and I don’t want to interrupt you. I know you’re thinking about those who are not anymore, those who could have been here today, those you claim died because of you.
I try not to think about Fred, but I can’t help it, and I know it’s my fault. You wouldn’t be this upset if it wasn’t for me and my mistakes.
It’s difficult for you, so difficult, I only want you to be happy. I want to help you, Harry, but I don’t know how, I only make it worse. It’s my fault, Harry, I’m so incredibly sorry, I only ever make it worse.
You say my name, again and again until I meet your eyes. I try to smile. I fail.
“I’ll get the medicine bag,” I say instead. My voice wobbles so much that it is barely recognizable, but I know you understand me.
You look at me while I hold your bruised, bloody hands and put the ice bag on your knee.
You say my name again.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, automatically.
You’re quiet for a very long time.
“It’s not, though, is it?”
It’s okay. It is. You don’t mean it. It’s my fault. It is okay, I’ll be better. It’s okay.
“It’s okay,” I repeat.
You shake your head, stand up on your wobbly knee, suddenly triple in height.
“But Draco.”
“It’s okay, it- it’s my fault, I’m sorry. It’s okay,” I insist, stepping back and raising my hands, and I swear, I’m not as scared as I sound, Harry.
You look so incredibly sad, and I know it’s me, it’s always me, why did I think I could make you happy?
You step forward, look me in the eyes, say my name again, that you’ve been thinking, and that can only mean one thing, you’re leaving, you know it’s my fault, why did I tell you, you’re going to leave, no, I can’t live without you, Harry, what am I going to do?
Your hand snakes out to touch me.
I flinch backwards.
“It’s okay!”
I shouted.
I shouted.
I don’t shout at you. I’ve never shouted at you. But I shouted at you.
“What have I done,” I think I hear you say to yourself.
I shouted at you.
You stop, you don’t move closer, you close your eyes, you try forcing the tears back in, you draw your breath, it doesn’t work.
“Draco, it’s not your fault.”
You’re lying to make me feel better, you’re blaming yourself to relieve my pain, but it’s only making it worse.
I can’t speak, can’t communicate, can merely hold my stomach, I want to throw up, I shake my head at your words.
“Oh, Draco, it’s not your fault, love.”
Your voice breaks at the end.
You haven’t called me that in ages.
I fall apart in front of you.
You hug me, tight, and how is it that you always manage to be everywhere at once?
“It’s not your fault. It’s my fault. It’s me, Draco, I know it’s me. I’m sorry.”
I cry into you, you cry into me, we stand there for an eternity and a little more.
“People can get fixed, you know,” you say close to my ear. “Like living rooms can.”
You kiss me. Your lips taste of salt.
“I’ll get fixed. I promise.”
I kiss you back.
You talk to a muggle with a strange title who makes you draw, go on walks and take white muggle pills, and some coloured ones, too, every single day. You make treacle tarts on Tuesdays. You find fancy charms to enlarge my little study. You even light candles and buy flowers on special evenings to surprise me.
You still get angry sometimes. When that happens, you swear under your breath, ball your fists, you might slam a door, but then you go for a walk, and when you get back, you’re okay. You don’t shout anymore. You don’t hit me anymore. I don’t keep the medicine bag next to the sink anymore.
You still feel bad for my old notes, so you keep getting me new notebooks, quills, books.
I’m not scared when I’m beneath you anymore.
I’ve still never slept on the couch, and neither have you.
And, sometimes, I even do the dishes.
It’s okay.
We’re okay.